


They Were Angels

by telemancer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, Finished, Oneshot, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8977747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemancer/pseuds/telemancer
Summary: Harry Potter is dead. Four people try to save him. Can the emotions of angels bring someone back from death? No ships, I think. Rated T for "death" and swear words. Ridiculously dramatic. Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Astoria Greengrass, and of course, Harry Potter. Appearances from Aberforth, Kingsley, three nameless, and other O.C.s.





	

They Were Angels

London, England, the beginning.

The flat was empty when the phone rang. No one was home, but the small apartment was cluttered to the brim with crumpled papers and inside out jumpers and worn tea cups. The ring of the telephone disrupted the room, breaking the absolute silence of a place that was almost abandoned. Over the next two days, someone called thirteen times but not once did the desired recipient pick up, let alone actually come home to their flat. The lonely apartment above the sketchy bar just collected dust and the flowered wallpaper peeled to the ground as it always had, and no one ever visited. Until May 2, 2000, when Draco Malfoy knocked on the door of Harry Potter's abandoned flat. The day that happened was the day that everything changed.

Ministry of Magic, four days previous (April 28, 2000).

"Shacklebolt!" screamed the man. "Shacklebolt! Kingsley!" The wizard was sprinting through the Ministry, expensive jacket crumpled under his arm, brown rolling suitcase bouncing dangerously along the tiles behind him. "I need to speak to the Minister! It's urgent!"

Everyone in the Ministry was silent, having frozen in their tracks the instant this man threw open the doors and ran past where the old fountain had been, hollering to see the Minister of Magic at once. The man seemed to only realize this now and slowed down, gradually coming to a stop. He looked around. In a obviously quieter voice, he called for the Minister once more. The crowd gave him one last glance, then continued on their way, ignoring him entirely. He looked down at his shoes, embarrassed, and noticed that they were caked in mud and dried red, and did not match his attire whatsoever. A guard, who was stationed at a nearby elevator, motioned to the man and kindly directed him towards a lift. The man entered the golden gates and replaced his suit jacket on his back, hopelessly attempting to smooth down the wrinkles. He waited for a few minutes before coming to his floor and finally got his much desired audience.

"Minister," the man greeted quietly. The wizard turned around.

"Auror Howell." Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice filled the office. "You caused quite a commotion downstairs. Why?"

"I apologize for that. But it's important, Minister, very urgent."

"Pull up a chair," commanded the Minister. The Auror obeyed. "Now speak."

"My team got ambushed in Cameroon by rogue dark wizards. We fought back for the longest time, but their reinforcements kept coming and they put up trapping auras and it was too much. Marie Lebedev was murdered first, then Ivan Rove, followed by Christina Lester, then it was just three of us. Levana Frosch was captured and stolen. The final member and I were back to back, casting spells as fast as we could, but it wasn't quick enough and they closed in. He told me to run while he covered for me. I ran as fast as I could. I was terrified. When I looked back, the dark wizards were a foot away from him. He saved my life. Harry Potter saved my life. And he died doing it."

Chigwell, England, December 2, 1999.

Dearest Ron,

I'm sorry I put you through this. I'm sorry I ever led you on, and I'm sorry I ever told you that I loved you. It wasn't a lie, I swear to you, our love was not a lie. I do love you, but not in the way I thought. You are one of my two best friends and I am so grateful for that. I'll always be grateful for that.

But I can't be with you. It's not for me. I can't hurt you like this, and I can't compromise myself for you, and it makes me so sad that I have to say this. I cannot marry you. I cannot date you. I'm not sure why, but I am certain that we will not work together. I am so sorry. I am truly sorry, Ron.

I hate that I have to say this in a letter, and I hate that I can't explain this to you, but the day after you left for that mission a week ago, a publishing company offered me a co-author for my book. You know how important this is to me. But the writer who agreed to help me works in Wales, and the only way I can use this opportunity to the fullest is to go there. I'll be there until my book is done, which could take years. I'm leaving today, the day after he contacted me.

Oh, Ron. I really hope you're happy. I really hope that I don't hurt you to leave you like this. But I know you felt the strain that our relationship put on us. I know you felt it. Our love wasn't healthy. I called it off for both of us, I called it off for our lives, for our future. I will be happy. I will miss you, I will miss you so much, but this will make me happier. I think my leaving will make you happier too.

I wish I could have mailed this to you, but I didn't know where you're off adventuring and even if I did, it could compromise your mission. Email me, or call me, or even owl me, anytime. I would like to talk to you. Again, I'm sorry.

I love you. Always.

Hermione Granger January 29, 1999.

Ronald Weasley read the letter again and again and again. He slid down to the floor, clutching the note. He stared at it for ages, his mind blank. He then stood up abruptly, gently placing the letter on the table, grabbed his coat, and left the flat, slamming the door behind him. That man who read the letter never came back.

Everywhere, April 29, 2000.

"HARRY POTTER IS DEAD," the reporters yelled.

"THE CHOSEN ONE IS DEAD," the parents cried.

"THE ONE WHO DEFEATED VOLDEMORT IS GONE," announced the politicians.

The news spread faster than when Voldemort was beaten. Everyone mourned for The Boy Who Lived, who had barely survived to be a man.

London, England, April 30, 2000.

When Draco Malfoy read the headline, he couldn't believe it. He stared at the newspaper until Astoria Greengrass snapped her fingers right in front of his long nose. He closed his grey eyes for just a moment, then looked up at her worried face.

"Are you alright, Malfoy?" she asked, in that sharp way of hers. They were eating breakfast, Draco sitting at his chair, Astoria standing by her window.

"Yes," Draco breathed. "Harry Potter is dead."

She looked at him, looked at his mask of calm, and saw right through it.

"That's the first time I've seen that much emotion on your face."

"But Harry, Harry Potter, is dead. He's gone," Malfoy said it over and over again, but Astoria could tell that he was having trouble believing it.

"Not if you don't want him to be. Malfoy, you are hung up on events that happened two years ago. I can tell you need to talk to Potter, I can see it in your eyes."

"But he's dead," Draco interrupted. "So what do I do?"

"So you read it in a newspaper," Astoria began, hands on her large hips. The pure impudence and smirk in her voice made Draco's eyes flick over to her. That voice was why he approached her at the bar on that sticky night filled with the hope of the future and the pain of the past, that voice was why they lived together. "I work in the newspaper business, Malfoy, I know how it is." She reached out, and pulled the newspaper out of his grasp. She scanned the article quickly, and threw it back towards her roommate. He caught it, barely.

"Is he dead?" questioned Draco bluntly.

"I don't know. But those aren't the facts. The facts aren't in that article. So this Auror bloke is in a battle. His team is murdered, one by one. He's being beaten, he can tell, and he thinks he's going to die. You know it better than I do, how it is in battle. Everything blurs, because the rose-tinted glasses are off, and he's about to be slaughtered. He's trying everything he can to save himself and his partner. There's an opportunity, and he takes it. As he runs away, fear and adrenaline and life bubbling around inside of him, he glances back. He sees destruction and things he doesn't understand, and as he escapes the assumed inevitability of death, he sees his partner struggling. Later, they check it out, and they find the numerous bodies. They can't identify them. People are sad and distraught and shaken and they assume the worst. Malfoy, I've seen Harry Potter, I know Harry Potter, I've written about him for two years. He's been through pain and love and life."

She paused.

"What are you saying, Astoria?" Draco demanded, hungry for this fantasy, for this hope.

"He's could be alive. C'mon, Malfoy. I know you've been calling Potter. We'll take a taxi to his flat."

"How do you know where he lives?" Draco asked, grabbing his black peacoat.

"Gossipers at work. Hate 'em."

"You need a better job, Astoria."

"I need a better everything."

And they left the flat, upturning their quiet world in a matter of seconds.

London, England, April 30, 2000.

Draco Malfoy punched a wall and instantly regretted it.

Harry Potter wasn't at his flat. No one had gone inside for weeks.

Harry Potter was nowhere to be found.

Cameroon, Africa, May 4, 2000.

Phosphenes. That was the word. All the pretty lights and colors that swarm your eyes when you rub them. They are called phosphenes. But when they dissipate, when all the pinpricks of luminescence disappear, you are left with only darkness.

Chigwell, England, April 30, 2000.

Ronald Weasley dropped his teacup. It shattered on the ground, a crescendo of broken porcelain. The warm liquid spread around his shoes like fresh blood.

Harry Potter, Head of the Auror Office and defeater of Lord Voldemort is presumed dead, read the newspaper. He died an honorable death, in Cameroon on April 28, 2000, saving a member of his Auror team. This grateful Auror, Jonathan Howell, is the only one of his team to return from that specific dark wizard attack. Although the Ministry cannot find Potter's body, there are 27 unidentifiable corpses at the scene of the crime. Any of those could easily be Potter's. There will be a public funeral in the coming weeks for the deceased members of the Phoenix Auror Squad, Marie Lebedev, Ivan Rove, Christina Lester, Levana Frosch, and Harry Potter. We mourn their deaths, and thank them for their priceless services for the greater good. In other news, Malfoy Manor has been seriously vandalized once again. We ask you as our reader to mail us your thoughts on this controversial issue. Give us any and all of your views on Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, as well as answering this question. Is Draco Malfoy truly evil or just horribly misconstrued?

Ron stopped reading there, although the article went on.

After they defeated Voldemort, everything was supposed to be okay. Harry and Hermione and everyone promised that. They were supposed to save the world and then be happy. They deserved to be happy.

So why did everything have to go wrong?

London, England, May 1, 2000.

The digital clock told Draco that it was one in the morning, and that it was the day after he had punched the wall outside of Harry Potter's flat. Draco knew the clock was right, because his hand hurt and his emotional state was even worse. But somehow, he couldn't accept what the clock read or he refused to believe it. Because, in Draco's dreams, in his head, it was still the fourth of May, 1998, two days after the Battle of Hogwarts. One day after Draco's fight with his parents and his first of many breakdowns. And the day that Draco's world really and truly changed. The day that he met the real Harry Potter.

Draco remembered it well, for it was seared into his memory, tucked away under blankets and imaginary teddies, locked away so he could keep it safe forever. Draco closed his eyes and that day washed over him like he was dipping his head in a Pensieve.

He wandered about the castle, barely seeing the walls and the tears and the people hating him. He just walked.

The castle seemed to move for him, melt to his touch and change, because he didn't recognize it and he didn't understand it. Draco just seemed to amble along, and Hogwarts didn't touch him. Nothing did. It all seemed boring and surreal. Until Draco walked into a room.

A room that was empty.

A room that wasn't empty.

A room that was filled with emptiness.

It was Harry Potter's emptiness.

As Draco Malfoy stepped into the room, it grew just a few degrees warmer - something that almost never happened when the cold Malfoy walked into a place. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could feel it. They could feel that shared sadness and pain and love and how they both could barely hold on to their lives anymore. Draco felt this, and he so badly just wanted to go over to Harry and put his hand on his arm and just talk and finally spill all the soundless words he's never let drip off his lips. But he held back. Instead, Draco turned away, footsteps echoing through the bathroom. He paused, mouth falling open slightly.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered, toneless, not even turning towards Harry. Then he continued walking away.

"Wait," Harry replied, in the same broken voice, not looking up from his curled up position under the sinks. He gave a quiet sob. "Wait."

So Draco waited. Because that was just how it was. Because when Harry Potter said something in that broken voice, you did it. Because he didn't know what he was, and maybe this dark haired boy who'd been through so much could tell him who to be, if Draco just listened hard enough.

So he turned. And he hurried towards Harry, because no one had ever asked him to wait before, and no one had ever asked him to stay, and he wasn't going to miss out on his first chance to be a human being.

As the Malfoy crawled under the sinks and sat next to Harry, he could hear a voice whispering tooclosetooclosetooclose, the same voice he had listened to for the past seven years, the same voice that had been in his dreams, skeletal fingers wrapped around his throat, a wand at his head.

But he'd had a pale hand around his throat awake, had felt cold wood kissing his temple with his eyes wide open, he knew how it felt to trust the wrong voices. Draco had let go of those voices. He no longer had to keep his heart locked away, he no longer had to let it shrivel up and become hairy like the warlock in his bedtime stories. Draco had no one to obey anymore. This boy sitting next to him was his old enemy. He was not allowed to befriend this boy or be nice to him. But now, no one could tell him that. No one in the entire world had the right to run Draco Malfoy's life.

But it was so normal. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter hate each other, they always will, everyone knows that. It's a fact of life. And then Draco Malfoy had this sudden unquenchable thirst to prove life wrong, to prove everyone wrong.

Draco Malfoy wanted to tempt fate. To poke that evil thing. With a stick. Or perhaps a sharp knife. Maybe even some sort of Muggle device, like a taser…

But this wasn't the time. Now was the time to defy Draco's labels, to rebel against the people who hurt him. Now was the time to help someone who needed help, to comfort someone who asked Draco, the least comforting person ever, to stay with him.

Right now, it was time for Draco Malfoy to help Harry Potter.

I know.

Plot twist.

Draco rolled over, leaving his memory.

He stared up at the ceiling of his and Astoria's bedroom, eyes meeting shadows and peeling paint. Astoria was out, probably bar hopping, hoping to find someone to stay with so Draco could be alone. He wished she were here, to help him calm down.

"Damn it, Potter," he whispered to the shadows. "Please be alive. Because I'm coming to save you. And Draco Malfoy's time will not be wasted."

Newport, Wales, May 1, 2000.

Hermione Granger looked up from her notebook at the sound of her editor's voice.

"Miss Granger," the man said, holding out a newspaper. "You may want to read this. I recall that you were Mr. Potter's friend."

"Aren't I still his friend?" Hermione muttered, accepting the paper. She skimmed it quickly, then folded it and placed it face down on the table. She closed her brown eyes for a fraction of a section, then opened them. She stood up, gathering her things. She turned toward the man and gave him a nod.

"I am going for a walk. I will be back tomorrow. Please do not follow me."

He stared at her.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Granger."

"Thank you for your sentiment."

And she left, closing the door quietly on her way out.

The man watched her leave.

Hermione was breathing hard. She was absolutely shocked. Her last memory of Harry was so happy, he was laughing and smiling. He was alive.

Now he was dead.

"No," said Hermione. "He is not dead. I will save him."

The old woman by the pond who was feeding the ducks looked at Hermione, a smile on her face.

"That's the spirit, dearie."

Hermione gave the woman a somewhat crazed grin and hurried towards the park's public washrooms. Once inside, Hermione took a deep breath.

"Harry is alive. He is out there, somewhere, unable to come back to me. If I am to save him, I must stay calm."

Her breathing steadied as she waited for a young girl to finish washing her hands and leave. The second the door closed and the loo was empty, Hermione turned on her heel and vanished with a quiet pop.

Somewhere in Scotland, May 6, 2000.

"I told you, Albus." A gruff voice trailed through the trees. "I told you that you would lead him to his death."

Aberforth Dumbledore was bent over a cane, speaking to his older brother's grave.

"His death is your fault, Albus. He felt that he had to be a hero and so he went on the mission that killed him. I know that you predicted that would be the case. And yet you still led Harry Potter on this path, you still brought him to this point. At least Voldemort is dead. Or else I could never have forgiven you. I hope Ariana is well. I also hope that you are well, my brother."

Aberforth paused, looking up at the sky. His grey hair whipped around in the wind.

"I shall join you all soon, Albus. I can sense it. No matter. Voldemort is gone. This world is mourning, but its wounds will heal. All is well."

And Albus Dumbledore's brother hobbled away, a small smile on his face.

London, England, May 12, 2000.

It had been 14 days since Harry Potter's death. To Astoria Greengrass, it seemed like yesterday, but a yesterday that was over a decade ago. If that made any sense. It probably didn't, considering Astoria had downed at least three shots of very strong vodka which was definitely impairing her current cognitive abilities.

"Life is hard," Astoria muttered, trying to justify her drinking habits. "And it's a Friday."

A man lowered himself into the bar stool next to her. He was tired, dark circles under his eyes, and had travelled a long way in a matter of seconds.

"How true," he responded quietly, voice barely loud enough to hear over the bar noise.

Astoria looked up sharply.

"Well, I felt a bit guilty drinking just an hour after I got off work."

The man hummed. "Hard day?"

Astoria laughed. "More like hard life. Things have been changing a lot lately. I'm not coping very well."

"I'm having a similar problem. Can I buy you a drink?"

Astoria sipped more of her vodka.

"It does seem that I've almost run out. How about you take off your hat and tell me your name?"

The stranger chuckled and waved the bartender over. "Fair enough."

He lowered his Chudley Cannons hat and turned towards Astoria. She took another sip.

"My name is Ron. Ronald Weasley."

Astoria spit the alcohol all over the bar in surprise. The bartender glared at her, mopped it up, and refilled her glass. "Famous Gryffindor, part of the Golden Trio, defeater of Lord Voldemort... That Ron Weasley? And he just offered to buy me, Astoria Greengrass, a drink?"

"That's me. It's a pleasure to meet you, Astoria Greengrass."

The bartender looked towards the Weasley , and Ron ordered a drink for the woman. The bartender placed it on the counter, and Astoria took a sip. She sobered suddenly, mood exaggerated by the alcohol.

"I am so sorry for your loss."

Ron sighed.

"Thank you. I still can't believe it. How could Harry have died? I just sort of assumed he would live forever."

"You know, I've already had a similar conversation."

"Oh? With who?"

"My boyfriend, Draco Malfoy."

Ron flinched, and scooted away.

"Oh, sorry. He's actually my ex-boyfriend. He's really just a friend," Astoria elaborated.

Ron relaxed, but only slightly.

"I can't believe Malfoy is your ex. Just my luck."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, in school, Malfoy was Harry and I's enemy. Our archenemy, really. I know it wasn't really his fault but, bloody hell, was he a prick back then. Merlin, we hated him."

"Oh," Astoria said. "I guess that makes sense. I mean, I've reported on you three enough times for my newspaper."

"You guess? He doesn't still go on about how much he disliked us?"

"No, actually. Malfoy was really torn up about Harry's death. I had to give him a pep talk, and when we visited Harry's flat, Malfoy punched a wall when he learned that no one was there. You know, before I learned all this, I was thinking that Malfoy fancied Harry! I guess not though…" Astoria knew she wasn't wrong, for Astoria Greengrass was never wrong, but she wanted to see how Ron would react, what he would say.

There was a long pause as Ron mulled this over.

"After we graduated from Hogwarts, I realized that they had very strange obsessions with each other. I never asked Harry about it, because I knew that we all wanted to put Hogwarts behind us."

"Hey, Ron? I don't want to get your hopes up, but Harry could be alive. Harry Potter was, is, smart, strong, and resourceful. If anyone could have survived, it's him."

"You're… You're wrong. Harry is dead, that's what the newspapers said. And the newspapers don't lie anymore! We fought for that!" Ron's voice had become gradually louder, and he was shaking.

"Ron. Ron! Calm down. I know this is a lot to happen in such short of a time, but you are stronger than this. The newspapers don't lie, not anymore, but they can be mistaken. Listen to me, this bloke who reported Harry Potter dead was terrified at the time. It's actually more likely than not that he remembered things wrong. Harry could have escaped. He could be out there, wounded, losing hope. And if there is even the slightest chance that Harry is still alive, we need to investigate, and we need to save him."

"Okay. Okay, Astoria Greengrass. What do we do now?"

"Well, no matter how much I would love to apparate to Cameroon right at this moment, I am slightly tipsy." As if to prove her point, Astoria chose that moment to almost fall off her stool. Ron steadied her, sort of smiling.

"Should we take a taxi, then?"

"Yep," Astoria agreed, popping the 'p'. "To my flat?"

"Brill. Wait. Do you live with Malfoy still?"

"Problem?" Astoria asked, putting on her coat shakily.

"Well, I don't really want to see Malfoy again," stammered Ron. Astoria turned around sharply.

"Malfoy isn't the person everyone thinks he is. Now that he is free from all the bad influences in his life, he is a kind and caring person. Give him a chance. And anyway, he's coming on this adventure with us, whether you like it or not."

Ron was quiet while Astoria stared him down.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have judged him. Let's go."

Astoria cheered, hooking her arm through Ron's.

"Yay, Ron! Just a warning though; he probably won't be wearing a shirt."

There was a moment of silence.

"What?"

London, England, May 12, twelve minutes later.

The taxi that had driven to Draco Malfoy's house was completely silent.

The cab driver was mourning his husband, who had died two days before then.

Ron was considering the possibility that Harry was alive, and trying to figure out what that meant.

Astoria was just trying not to vomit all over her Fluevogs.

They were all caught up in their own worlds, unaware of what was happening around them.

Cameroon, Africa, May 12, 2000.

He should be dead. He couldn't move. He hadn't eaten in god knows how long. His wound had only stopped bleeding a few sunrises ago, and it was obviously infected. His whole body burned and it sure felt like he was dead, or in hell.

But he wasn't dead.

Something was keeping him alive. Something wouldn't let him die, even though he wanted to.

But Harry Potter wasn't sure how much longer that something could hold on.

London, England, May 12, after the taxi ride.

Astoria fished through her purse, fingers finding the key, and unlocked the door. She let Ron go ahead, then shut the door behind them. The hallway was tight, and Ron had to lean over Astoria. She looked up at him.

"You can do it," she whispered.

"My life isn't what I want it to be," he responded, a wave of emotion breaking on the rocky shore. "The woman I thought I would marry left me. Then Harry died. My best friend, my only friend. And now he might be alive. And now I'm in Draco Malfoy's flat. Everything is changing. I don't know what to do."

"I understand. But if you don't like your life right now, then let it change. I'll be with you. Come on, Ron. Let's do this together." Astoria held out her hand, and Ron took it. They walked down the hallway, hand in hand.

Draco Malfoy was leaning against the counter, a lime green mug clasped between all ten fingers. His black and grey flannel pajama bottoms hung loosely around hips. His blonde hair was tousled, and his lips chapped and swollen from chewing on them.

But Ron Weasley didn't notice any of this.

The only thing he noticed was Draco's bare chest.

Just as Astoria had warned him, Draco wasn't wearing a shirt.

Malfoy had heard them come in, and slammed down his mug and crossed his arms over his naked front. Tea splashed onto the counter, then dripped to the floor.

"What. The. Hell. Did. You. Do. Astoria," he enunciated.

"We met at the bar," Astoria explained, slightly apprehensive at Draco's cold tone. "He wants to bring Harry back. So do you. We are going to go to Cameroon together and we are going to save Harry Potter. Forget about the old Ronald Weasley. You are both different people now."

Draco took a tiny breath and turned to the frozen redhead next to him.

The former Death Eater paused, taking in Ron's expression, then lowered his arms to reveal his torso.

Ron was silent. Draco laughed.

"Did I make the famous sidekick speechless?" sang Draco smugly. Ron instantly recovered, woken by Draco infuriating smirk.

"Fine, I'll work with you. But can you put on a shirt? Only Harry wants to see that."

Astoria dissolved into giggles at Ron's comment and at Draco's reaction. The blonde was frozen, just like the redhead had been one second ago. Ron Weasley grinned, and strolled past Draco, hands in his pockets. He sat on the faux-leather sofa smoothly.

"So, what's our game plan?"

Newport, Wales, May 12, exact same time.

Hermione Granger, after barely sleeping for eleven days, had finally finished her novel. She hadn't stopped working since the day that she apparated out of the public loo's in the park and into London, only to realize that she had overreacted and had no idea what she was doing there. Hermione leaned back in her chair, letting go of her prim posture, and sighed, letting go of all of her emotions.

"Did you finish a chapter, Miss Granger?" her editor asked, looking over at her.

"No," she responded. "I finished the entire book."

The man dropped his papers in surprise and hurriedly picked them up, a red tinge spreading over his cheeks and ears. Hermione saw this and instantly looked away, reminded of Ron. She wondered how he was doing.

"Well," Hermione announced, standing up and gathering her things. "Thank you for all you have done. You can find my entire book on that computer. Feel free to make any edits you want. I want it published as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I must return to London. I have urgent business there."

"Wait," the man pleaded shakily. "Are you leaving? When will you return?"

"I will not return," Hermione explained, gathering her things. "We will communicate through telephone so we can publish my book."

"I thought that you were staying for longer!"

"So did I. But London calls me. I must go."

"Miss Granger, I… I wonder if we can speak of things outside of the book," the man stammered, trying to articulate his feelings. Hermione understood completely.

"I'm afraid not. I have someone I unfortunately must find, someone I must save, and someone I must apologize to. I will not see you again." And with that, Hermione Granger left her small office, door closing with finality.

"Goodbye, Miss Hermione Granger," the man whispered, no tears falling for that would be cliche, instead a dull hopeless feeling spreading through his chest that stems from watching a person you love stride out of your grasp.

And he watched her leave, yet again. But this time, he knew, she would not return.

London, England, May 12, an hour later.

Ron was just confused. Honestly. He was completely confused, bewildered, baffled, mystified, take your pick because all of them apply. Ron was at a complete loss.

Because Draco Malfoy was a total badass.

Draco Malfoy was completely awesome.

Even with a shirt on.

And Ron couldn't even handle it.

"I cannot believe this," Ron stuttered, his face in his hands. "We spent all of Hogwarts hating each other and now we've spent an hour laughing and talking and getting along! It's crazy!"

Draco and Astoria chuckled.

"I guess it's a prime example of how people change," Draco said, smiling.

"It is pretty insane though, how well you two are getting along," mused Astoria. "I expected some sort of fight. Or display of manliness. But this is great! New friends, yay! My master plan is going along so well…"

Ron and Draco turned slowly towards Astoria, who was reclining in an armchair and tapping her fingers together evilly.

"What 'master plan'? Astoria… What are you planning?" Draco's quiet words held a mixture of warning and fear.

Maybe a little excitement as well.

But only a little.

Astoria giggled. "Oh, don't worry, Malfoy. It's a good plan. A very good plan. You'd like it. As would Ron. And so, it's time to put my plan in action. Come on boys, put on your coats. We're going to the Ministry."

Draco made a quiet noise of hurt.

"How come you call Ron by his first name and not me?" he muttered.

Astoria laughed and said in true newspaper reporter fashion, "Come on Malfoy, you're ruining the dramatic moment. Let's go."

London, England, May 12, same time.

After apparating to London, Hermione wandered about for around an hour. She thought about life, about what she was going to do.

She was getting older and older and nothing felt accomplished.

Sure, she had published a book (almost).

Sure, she'd fought in politics and for getting everyone the rights they deserved.

But at what price?

She'd lost the love of her life.

She'd lost her best friend.

She sure as hell wasn't happy.

But she sure as hell wasn't going to give up.

The hour of walking had given Hermione time to think about what she wanted, how she was going to get what she wanted, and what she was going to say to get what she wanted.

Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself, and walked down the street a few blocks.

And with that, Hermione Granger strode into the Ministry of Magic.

London, England, May 12, right as that happened.

Before Ron and Draco even knew what had happened, Astoria had dragged them into the Ministry. A hand on each of their spines, she shoved them through the doors of the Ministry and up towards the Minister's office.

They got into the elevator, and Ron gasped.

"Hermione?"

The brown haired woman in the elevator reading a book burst into tears and wrapped her arms around Ron's neck.

"Oh my god, Ron, I can't believe it's you! I'm so sorry for leaving you and - " Hermione cried into his jacket. Draco and Astoria backed away as much as they could in the small lift.

"Hey," said Ron, gently returning the hug, definitely not crying a little bit as well. "No hard feelings, okay? I'm just glad to see you again. When I heard about… About Harry, I wanted to see you again just to say goodbye. Together."

Hermione Granger smiled tearfully up at the redhead, then noticed Draco and Astoria in the corner.

"Draco Malfoy?!" she shrieked, and hugged him too. He hung there limply, looking pleadingly towards Ron and Astoria. Hermione let him go and was about to hug Astoria as well when -

"Don't hug me, Ms. Granger," begged the blonde woman. "Please."

Hermione held out her hand, grinning, and they shook.

"Nice to meet you, Astoria Greengrass. Call me Hermione, I beg of you. At the very least, just Granger."

She turned back to Ron again and realized something.

"Wait, why are you all in an elevator together and getting along?"

"We're trying to rescue Harry," Astoria explained. "Come with us?"

"How could I refuse?" grinned Hermione.

"You can't," Draco finally said. "We're making you help us either way."

"Isn't he… Kinda dead though?" Ron asked once again.

"The Auror who gave the report is completely unreliable!" Astoria and Hermione said together, then high-fived.

"I'm not sure we should be getting our hopes up like this," mourned the Malfoy.

Hermione was suddenly sober, and her smile slipped away. "I think it's the only way I can deal with this right now."

The four were quiet, and then the elevator dinged.

Two paths painted themselves out from the elevator, and the four had to choose.

One path was lonely, hopeless. The four would leave the Ministry and Harry Potter would be dead.

The other path breathed life into any who were dead inside. Astoria, Draco, Hermione, and Ron would leave the elevator, stride to the Minister's office, and demand to save Harry Potter. And he would be alive. He would.

Draco Malfoy stepped outside the lift and placed an arm over the doors.

"After you," he gestured. The four left.

Emotions grew wings, then fell off a cliff and managed to soar.

Somewhere, in Cameroon, a black-haired man took a labored breath.

Even though the world wasn't listening, the breath echoed in their souls.

London, England, May 12, minutes later.

The Minister wouldn't have it. Whatsoever.

"I am not letting four of the most powerful and famous wizards and witches go to Cameroon just to get themselves killed."

"But we are going to save the most powerful and famous wizard! And we will not die doing it!" shot back Hermione while Draco and Ron leaned against the wall, Malfoy looking almost too cool, Weasley looking horrible awkward.

"Look," Astoria began. "We are going to go save Potter no matter what. You either help us and almost guarantee our survival, or we go without your help and have a greater chance of getting hurt."

Kingsley put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Fine. Fine. What will you four need?"

London, England, May 14, 2000.

They were ready.

Bags were packed, then shrunk, then hidden. Spells were learned, memorized, then practiced. They were nervous, but they couldn't show it.

Astoria Greengrass was too nonchalant, hair dripping down her shoulders, wand clenched in pale fingers.

Ron Weasley was fidgety, eyes darting from person to person, shoulders curved in.

Draco Malfoy was too apathetic, but you could see waves crashing on the shore of his eyes.

Hermione Granger had thrown herself into the preparation and she was scared for all of them.

What if Harry were dead?

What if they were too late?

No.

That was not possible.

They were ready.

Two brunettes, a redhead, and a slim blonde apparated out of London at 4:27 am, ready for almost anything.

Cameroon, Africa, May 14, 2000.

The arrival was shaky at best.

Draco almost collapsed with panic, anxiety unfolding in his chest, pushing up against his ribs and intestines and heart.

What were they even doing there?

They were in freaking Cameroon.

Trying to save a probably dead Harry Potter.

What the actual, literal, veritable hell.

Cameroon, Africa, May 14, miles away.

One.

More.

Breath.

That had become Harry's motto.

He'd never had much time to think; he'd always rushed into battle without fear or hesitance.

Now he had all the time in the world.

He thought about his life, his time at Hogwarts, whether or not he threw away his shot. He thought a lot about Ron and Hermione. Ginny. Dumbledore.

For some reason, his mind seemed to frequently wander to the subject Draco Malfoy.

Perhaps bleeding out on an unforgiving dirt floor had somewhat addled Harry's mind.

Being "good" was no longer Harry's default.

The darkness of Lord Voldemort's, and Draco Malfoy's, side fascinated Harry and he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Did Malfoy regret everything he did?

Did he think about Harry just as much as Harry thought about him?

If he could go back, would he change anything?

And if so, what would it be?

Maybe someday, all of Harry Potter's questions would be answered.

But for now, the Chosen One lay in an abandoned building, and took one breath at a time.

Cameroon, Africa, May 17, searching.

Astoria, Draco, Hermione, and Ron couldn't have prepared for what they found in Cameroon, no matter what they did. It would've been impossible.

There was nothing there.

Nothing.

For two days, the four canvassed the area. Miles and miles. They didn't sleep.

Harry Potter wasn't there.

But he should be.

He had to be.

The universe had logic. Facts. Gravity. The universe has constants.

Harry Potter was seen in the Cameroonian Highlands forests.

He was definitely injured and magic-depleted.

There was no way for him to move because of this.

But yet, Harry wasn't found.

The four kept searching, losing hope, but pretending they weren't.

Cameroon, Africa, May 17, close enough to touch.

Harry couldn't last much longer.

His shield spell was still strong, but his physical form was waning.

The gash was infected. Yellow flowers and green lines danced at the edges of Harry's world.

But he couldn't give up. He wouldn't. There were people he needed to talk to.

People he needed to say goodbye to.

Cameroon, Africa, May 17, there.

Draco Malfoy stumbled past figures, underbrush scratching through his skin.

"Granger!" he screamed. "Weasley! Astoria!"

They appeared moments later, apparating haphazardly.

"I found him," Draco spat blood, breathless from living. "Old magic. Dark magic. But I found him."

Cameroon, Africa, May 17, finally.

The shield was down.

The flowers had wilted into swirling ashes, the lines had merely vanished.

There was someone approaching Harry, but he was too weak to move and see them clearly.

The someone morphed into two someones, Harry blinked, and there were four.

The figures kneeled next to Harry, spells and magic pouring from them like prayers to a being above.

Clever brown eyes.

Cold fingers and full lips.

A familiar sweater, knitted by kind hands.

Blonde hair like a halo.

No matter what they had done before, no matter what crimes or heroisms they had committed, they were there to save Harry, there to save a life.

In that moment, they were angels.


End file.
